


A Bundle of Lamb's Ear & Baby's Breath

by pilotisms



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Force Bond, Handmaiden!Reader, I'm a hoe for Obi, Mutual Pining, Naboo Culture and Customs (Star Wars), Obi-Wan is a Romantic, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Reader-Insert, Set in an AU after Episode I, Sexual Tension, Theed Palace, This is just soft fluff like Obi's hair, Young Love, if Obi-Wan stayed on Naboo for a bit, if the negotiations were longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi is a romantic. Terribly so. He loves with his whole heart and he has a terrible habit of doing so with it on his sleeve – feelings of infatuation have nipped at his heels since he was a boy. Now a man, though still a padawan in the eyes of the council, he finds it no easier to avoid such feelings. Only easier to digest them, piece by piece, in small bites.He falls in love with you, a Royal Handmaiden, during the negotiations on Naboo.( Collection of drabbles, slight AU, the negotiations were longer. )
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Original Female Character(s), Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 725





	1. questions.

It all _starts_ with harmless questions.

You’d never _met_ a Jedi before – and stuck on the Queen’s transport, in the middle of a sand storm no less, left a lot of time for those questions to float about. Qui-Gon and Padmé had gone for supplies an hour ago now.

You wonder, absentmindedly, if you’re bothering Obi-Wan Kenobi. You lean against the opposite end of the ship’s navicomputer and fuss your bottom lip.

There’s another question hanging there on the tip of your tongue.

You are, by far, the most beautiful thing he’s ever had the grace of looking upon – like a million pieces of sunshine, all bottled up and glimmering with warmth. 

His brows lift as he watches you, absolutely enraptured, lip quirking at their corners as you search for the right words in your mind – you catch him anticipating the question, Obi-Wan’s face alight with good-humor. The twinkle in his eyes prompts you to descend into a bashful laugh and duck your head. You catch him staring when pulling your eyes up from your hands.

“… Am I asking too many questions?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t mind. Not in the slightest. 

He may be a Jedi Padawan, but suddenly being the center of attention of a rather beautiful girl was… well, it was rather _nice_. If Qui-Gon was here, Obi would probably be trapped under a look that operated as a pre-cursor to a lecture; something about haphazard attachments, or the dangers of passion. Maybe jealousy, or the wary road of outward validation being the only source of peace in one’s life. 

And Obi-Wan isn’t _stupid._ He knows this is… this is just a way to pass the time.

Nothing will come of this. It’d be wrong to hope so. 

~~ But, he’s a helpless romantic and he can’t _help_ but hope – just a little – that you think he’s just as captivating as he thinks you are. ~~

“Not at all,” he reassures, “I must admit I don’t often get to talk about myself, so…”

“Am I fueling your ego, then?”

“Oh, quite,” he grins, leaning back in the stool across the empty cockpit, “What were you going to ask?”

“You’re… saber?” your brows knot, head tilting, “Lightsaber, you called it?”

A thoughtful nod. “Yes.”

He procures it then, with a practiced flick of his wrist. It’s second nature. He doesn’t ignite it, only offers the cylindrical weapon in an open palm for you to gaze upon. It draws you closer, prompting you to round the navicomputer and wander into his personal orbit. 

You hum with awe. “Is it heavy?”

“Would you like to hold it?”

Your eyes snap up, wide with shock. His face is only a few inches from yours – your fingers halt as they ghost above the hilt, imagining the grooves there. You’re not used to such… _sweetness._ Surely you’d known a fair share of airmen and guard in the Royal Naboo Force, but… none of them had ever treated you with the same level of humanity and respect this Jedi Padawan is. Though a skilled shot yourself, the boys in your life had scoffed at the mere _thought_ of you touching one of their prized pistol blasters. 

“… You’d let me?”

“As long as you don’t intend to chop your own hand off,” he smirks, dimples digging into his sun-kissed cheeks, “Mind the trigger.”

He hands it to you then, and you’re not quite sure what to do. It’s heavier than you anticipated, but with a solid weight that is satisfying in your hands. 

Obi-Wan grins – boyish and excitable – and nudges you with his elbow gently. 

“Hold it like this,” he says, taking one of your hands and adjusting the placement of the saber within your palm, “So you can better grip the hilt.”

“Do you normally fight with one hand?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugs, “I was trained in both heavy and light fighting styles, such as my master. Though, I tend to lean more towards the lighter style. One hand, that is.”

“And you just… swing it?” you ask, eyes happily taking in the handsome padawan’s expression as he leans forward and nods, adjusting in his seat. 

“Well, strikes and volleys and parries,” Obi-Wan supplies, “But, yes, _fancy_ words for just… swinging it around.”

He’s guilty of admiring you in this moment – his heart lurches when you smile up at him with an affectionate amount of appreciation. He can feel it radiating around you. When you hand him back the lightsaber, your fingers brush and it _burns –_ better than anything he’s ever felt. 

The padawan clears his throat.

“If you find a broomstick,” he offers with a slip of humor, “I’ll make a jedi of you, yet.”

How could you resist?


	2. staring.

He’s staring.

He can’t help it. He feels like someone has driven a fist through his ribs and plucked at his heartstrings, as if elatedly playing a harp. It’s to the tune of your laugh – melodic and gentle, like a chime of bells. Beneath the cream colored robes adorning his torso, his heart is beating in a rhythm he’s not quite used to.

Well – it’s not as if he hasn’t felt this way before. He _knows_ this feeling. It’s infatuation, clear as the clouds in the sky – the same clouds his head is currently swimming in, and it burns a bit. A good burn. But, a heeded warning of how the stoking of said little fire can burn bright and swallow him whole.

_Hmfph_. 

Breathe. In, hold, out. Remember mindfulness. Control the feelings. It’s anxiety, he realizes, swirling around in his gut – no thanks to the years of bitter fear instilled in him by the Council.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a _romantic._ Terribly so. He loves with his whole heart and he has a terrible habit of doing so with it on his sleeve – feelings of infatuation have nipped at his heels since he was a boy. Now a man, though still a padawan in the eyes of the council, he finds it no easier to avoid such feelings. Only easier to digest them, piece by piece, in small bites. 

Satine had nearly gone and broken his heart into a million, glimmering little pieces – but, he’d nursed his hurt through that heartache. _This_ doesn’t feel like _that,_ thought. This feels different. Less like a roaring, ravenous wildfire and more like a comfortable hearth, stoked with kindle and care. 

You smile at him. 

The hearth fire crackles just as his heartstrings do, alighting his cheeks with a contented smile – he laughs, a bit bashful, and turns his lack of attention back to the task at hand; listening to the diplomacy between the two Naboo Senators aboard the Nubian Royal Starship. 

You’re staring now. 

And Qui-Gon makes a point to eye the padawan to his left when he notices. 

(He tries his best to hide the smile on his face. A little quirk of his lips slip as he leans back in his boots rolling his shoulders. He knows his padawan well enough not to worry – though, it seems these sorts of things always befall the young Kenobi. _Romance,_ and the heartache that follows.)

… Qui-Gon supposes it’s rather sweet.


	3. duties.

_ Are you trained in hand to hand, then?  _

_ What of languages? How many do you speak? _

_ Do you own as many gowns as the Queen? _

_ As many shoes, then? _

_ What of blaster training? Are you a good shot? _

_ Have you ever defended the Queen from a threat? _

“Have you ever been the decoy?”

You’re in the gardens, skin of your shoulders hot under the afternoon sun. It’s peaceful out here, stillness framed by the quiet chirping of birds, and the grass under your fingers is cool to the touch. Beside you, Obi-Wan is happily sprawled in the patch of lush, green grass – he’s on his back, a blade of grass between his fingers and his attention anchored on you. 

You offer a slow smile. “Maybe.”

His interest piques, even more than it already is, and you’re shocked all this royal handmaiden business hasn’t lost its thrill. He’s incredibly interested, sitting up to prop himself on his elbow. He grins, all boyish and amused.

“You _have_ , haven’t you?!” he nearly cries, shocked.

“ _Maybe!_ It’s – It’s _hardly_ much fun –”

“Gods, I can’t even imagine.”

“Padmé is very smart – and very wise for her age. We all try our best to be well-versed in regional politics as to not compromise the intent of the Queen; we’re briefed, though, and it’s not as terrifying the second time around.”

“You’ve done it _twice?”_

He’s smiling, all dimpled and sweet, and you have to snicker. 

“Four times, actually.”

“My god,” he mutters, slipping back to lay down in the grass, “I can _hardly_ _believe_ I’m in the presence of royalty.”

“Four time royalty –”

He chuckles, chest shaking as he reaches above his head and snags another blade of grass. Obi-Wan toys with it between his thumb and forefinger, eyes cast across your frame as you mimc his same sort of fiddling; you’re smiling at your hands. 

“Should I start calling you _your highness?”_

You swat at his knee. “Don’t you dare.”

“Well, why not? You’ve been Queen before –”

“ _Four times.”_

_“_ Yes, yes, you’re _quite_ proud of that, aren’t you?” he laughs, sitting up and nudging your arm as he does. It spurs another laugh out of you – and as the Jedi Padawan hooks his arms around his knees and eyes you, the smile on your face doesn’t fade for a moment.

“ _Perhaps_.”

“You ought to be,” he says firmly, “You’re a very accomplished woman. I’m proud to say I know you. Proud of _you,_ as well.”

You have to break eye contact. The feel the words stir – _his voice_ stirs – is a dangerous burn; warm and welcoming but _dangerous._ The air changes and you feel as though you can hardly breathe. Obi-Wan feels it, too. A bite at his heels, sending him closer to the feelings swirling in the homes of his heart. 

“Thank you,” you say tightly, “You’re very sweet, Obi-Wan.”

He can hardly breathe.


	4. gardens.

“That one up there is Malastare.”

The sun set hours ago. Dinner had been long and arduous and full of political banter that left you itching to remove yourself from the table. As things finally quelled down and the palace’s servants came to fetch empty plates, it was Obi-Wan who leaned over to you and asked a soft:

_ “Would you like to go for a walk?” _

The thought of saying _no_ never even crossed your mind. After all, you were terribly, maddeningly, wonderfully _love-struck_ with the Jedi Padawan and his kind charm. You reason he could ask you to do _anything_ in the universeand you would, especially if it meant being graced with the dimpled smile he’d given you at dinner when you’d nodded and happily obliged. 

So, here you find both of yourselves – laying on your backs in the soft grass of the garden, shoulder to shoulder, as you both point up at the stars and draw images in the glimmering canvas of the Theed’s sky. 

Obi props his legs up, bending at the knee, as he points into the sky at a red gas giant, Malastare. His robes fall around his elbow, his undershirt tugged into his palm as he points. It’s boyish – and rather cute. 

“Have you ever been?” you ask, turning to eye the man bathed in the soft cast of the summer moonlight. 

He looks softer, _tired even,_ and shakes his head. His lashes kiss his cheeks as he blinks, turning to eye you – it’s a gentle look, one of affection. 

“No,” he breathes, “Have you?”

A shake of your head. “… I wonder what it’s like.”

The wind passes through the garden, then, rustling the garden and whooshing overhead – the air is colder, a bit electric, and warns of a coming storm. If you listened carefully, maybe you would hear a distant rumble or two. For now, though, you happily lay unmoving in the grass as it sways in the wind. 

A chill passes through both of you.

“Warm, maybe,” he mumbles, reaching around him to unbundle the woolen robe beneath his head. He’d been using it as a pillow. With a flick of his wrist, he’s draped it over you both – wordlessly laying back down in the grass and tucking himself beneath it. His chin pokes out, just barely, and you admire the little dimple there as he cozies himself up.

You have to laugh, doing the same as you press yourself a bit closer. Obi’s face softens into one of those smiles – the kind that has your knees feeling a bit like pudding – as he presses on to search for your hand beneath the make-shift blanket.

“Beautiful, I’m sure,” he manages, fingertips finding yours as he speaks, “Like you.”

He robs you of your words – and all you can manage is a squeeze of his fingers as you bury your nose into the pleats along his shoulder and giggle sheepishly. 

He’ll count it as a win. 


	5. kissing.

Your hair is a mess.

To be honest, you don’t _care_ – not right now, hidden away in some quiet hallway in the Theed’s palace, fingers looped in the robes of one particular Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

And he doesn’t care that he’s got lipstick smeared across his mouth, staining his lips like roseberry jam – all he cares about is the way you happily keen into his touch and let your fingers trail up his wrists as he kisses you again and again and again. His hands are in your hair, locked in the thick tresses there. 

You’ve been at it for _gods only know how long,_ kissing and touching and exploring. 

Your back is flush with the wall, his hips flush with your own. You bite his lip as you pull away for a breath, spurring him to laugh so low it registers only as a rumble through your fingertips that have scoured to find the collar of his outer-robes. You give a tug, pulling him back close, and smile happily when his hands rush around you to do the same. 

His hands, calloused and warm, scale your back as he delves into another deep kiss – one that has you robbed of your composure and sends you staggering backwards on your feet. You whine, hands finding his face where you cup his jaw tightly. Obi-Wan pulls away, all bright-eyed and kind, and chases the kiss with ones that venture to your jaw…

Then – footsteps.

He’s fast to pull himself from you, clearing his throat and watching as you turn to face away from him and towards the flora lining the half-walls, looking out over the lakes. 

It’s Qui-Gon who rounds the corner.

“Ah,” a warm greeting, “I’ve been looking for you.”

If he sees Obi-Wan rubbing at the lipstick smeared across his face, he certainly doesn’t say anything.


	6. baths.

You stiffly clear your throat.

The baths in the palace were usually quiet around this time. You’d come to find that late in the evening you didn’t need to worry about running into anyone and, majority of the time, could bathe in peace. 

Not tonight, it seems.

The deep, marble-set pools of hot water smelt of fruits and flowers, fed by one of the hot springs running beneath the Theeds Palace, and were lit by the hanging crystal lights along the tall, ornately painted ceiling. Steam hangs low across the water, hazing the room in a warm glow. 

You hadn’t expected to run into the Jedi Padawan here nor _now_ – certainly not when he’s waist deep in the water and scrubbing at the spiked buzz-cut of his hair, having just returned from a visit to the Gungans in the Eastern swamps. 

“Oh.”

Wide, blue-gray eyes pin you down as you suddenly whips around and sinks deep into the water. Up to his chin. 

“I–I’m sorry.”

You swallow down your shock, skin pricking with embarrassment as you duck your head and grip your towel a bit tighter. “No, no – I… Do you mind if I…?”

If you get in?

Obi-Wan blinks. He then shakes his head, meekly swallowing down any vocalization – he’s sure if he speaks, his words will shatter and squeak and he will lose any sense of pride he’d built in himself in the years after puberty. You have a wicked way of reducing him to a mere puddle. And now, still settled deep in the water, Obi-Wan has to try and remember how to _function_ knowing he’ll be mere meters from you, naked.

The whole ordeal is painful – only because he’s never been _good_ at averting his gaze from things he finds beautiful, but he does for his own sake; you say nothing, only make a point of picking a bench far from the stairs he’d entered the baths from and settled your towel, comb and robe there. 

He’s fiddling with his Padawan braid when you finally enter the water, sending steaming ripples across the baths as you settle low into the pool just like him. Maybe it’s a bit childish, hiding from one another like this – but, Obi-Wan reasons that if he were to truly see you, bathing naked in the baths in the glow of the steam, his heart would give out, he’d slip below the water and drown, never to be seen or heard from again. 

A rather wonderful way to go, really, if he was being honest with himself.

Not that Qui-Gon would appreciate it. If Qui-Gon knew about the way you two had held hands in the gardens earlier that day, the way he’d kissed the corner of your mouth all for a smile, Obi-Wan doubted his Master would appreciate that either. 

The mud from the swim earlier in the day – visiting the Gungan’s Eastern regional clan – was still caked in his scalp. As much as Obi-Wan felt the need to _run_ for the sake of his beating heart, he also couldn’t _stand_ the feeling; and so, the Padawan moved to continue scrubbing at his scalp with the rose-scented soap he’d _assumed_ was for hair. 

(He wasn’t entirely sure. It looks like shampoo. Smelt nice enough. None of the bottles were labeled – just intricate and crystal.)

You move slowly through the water, toes reaching to push you up at the deepest part of the pool as you move towards the middle – the floating marble counter was home to a wide array of soaps and salts and salves. 

Obi-Wan is staring out of the corner of his eye, fingers working a hard lather in his hair, as you swim around the collection of soaps and pull yourself up the counter and reach for a bottle on the third tier of the shelf. 

His heart stutters as you push up on your palms, rising our of the water high enough that he spies two dimples along the base of your spine – an image that strikes him right in the gut. One that will stick with him for _months to follow,_ no doubt, when it’s late and he’s alone and he’s biting his knuckles as takes care of himself while thinking _more_ about the image. Your hair sticks to your shoulders, running rivers of water off your skin as you snag the bottle and slip back below the water. 

He’s stuck in his place, hands having stopped moving moments ago and _you notice._ It’s rather _cute_ if you’re being honest. His cheeks are flush from the heat of the water and his hair is strewn about in light pink suds. His Padawan braid clings to his neck and chest as he stands there, water stopping above his hipbones. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a sight to behold; slack-jawed, flustered and naked as the day he was born in the baths of the Naboo Palace, alone with the woman of his _dreams_ whom he’d _kissed_ earlier that afternoon in the sprawling gardens of Theed.

Bookishly picturesque. 

Until he gets soap in his eye and curses, that is.

You muffle a laugh, stealing a glance his way as you place the shampoo on the side of the bath and gather some into your hands – he’s gone and dunked himself under water completely now, emerging with a disgruntled look on his dimpled face. 

“You alright over there?”

It’s soft. It echoes.

Obi-Wan makes a soft sound of discomfort, gathering water in his hands and splashing his face once more before speaking. “Remind me never to visit the swamps with Jar-Jar again.”

“Oh no.”

You make a face. He raises both his brows and quirks his head to the side, a small laugh huffing out his nose as he does. “How I’ve gotten mud in some places, I do not know.”

It’s your turn to laugh – light and melodic – as you comb the shampoo through your hair and lather it quickly. Obi-Wan is mesmerized by the action, blue eyes glued to you entirely. You’ve submerged yourself deep enough to let his imagination roam; but the curves of your body are _there_ and if he looks hard enough, he’d see them.

But, he doesn’t, mostly because he’s _trying_ not to faint, drown, and perish at the hands of your insurmountable beauty. 

For Qui-Gon’s sake, if not his.

So, you both sit meters away, glowing in the haze of the baths and swallowing down the ache of something more than affection – for now. 


	7. dreams.

“…Obi?”

He’s half asleep at the call of the sound, mouth moving to murmur something as he drowns in his dreams – the room is bathed in starlight, his figure wrapped in the sheets of the Naboo guest bed. He’s sprawled, bare chest turned to the moon pouring in from the balcony windows. 

Outside, the wind whispers a sweet lullaby in the trees.

You’re quiet as you close the door to his room shut behind you, your nightgown kissing the floor as you bow slightly; your tongue wets your lips as you mind the _click!_ of the lock – and softly, you pad across the cold marble floor towards his bed. You say his name again, a melted murmur followed by the gentle coaxing of a hand.

He stirs to your touch, pulling open blue-grey eyes with a slight stretch. 

He must be dreaming.

You’re here, skin glowing in the moonlight and hair running like waterfalls over your shoulders and back – sleep has kissed your cheeks and left your eyes heavy; and his hands reach out to interlace with your own. The bed dips as you move beside him, legs tangling with his as the Padawan darts a kiss to the crown of your head. It lingers.

His arms wind around you gently, movements sluggish as if to not wake himself from this very dream – you mimic the notion and curl into his chest, nose darting against the column of his throat as you smile, adoration bubbling in your heart and threatening to spill into your mouth where you’ll babble and babble and babble about your love for the Jedi until the end of your days.

Obi-Wan kisses you again, this time craning his neck to sluggishly steal your composure from your lips. He’s wading in his dreamland, half-here and half-there and _content_ no matter the place – because you’re _in his arms_ and that’s truly the best dream there is.


End file.
